Taste Testing
by Foxipaw
Summary: Sneak preview for a friend of an upcoming fic!


Clarke didn't know if she ought to be anguished or just angry. _Of all the stupid, pig-headed people in the world..._ She ground her teeth and flung a folder of old sketches from the top of her desk. They scattered across the floor amid a puff of charcoal dust and pencil shavings. It wasn't enough. She moved towards an end table, meaning to upend that as well, but stumbled to a stop in the center of the room instead.

The crying started in her chest, shook her shoulders, worked its way up her neck in the guise of a flush before reaching her eyes and spilling over. She sucked in a breath, trying to force it all back down. She would not cry, she _did not cry_, because it was beneath her to cry over a boy. A stupid, beautiful boy with a crooked smile and a quick wit, and _fuck it all_! An angry cry welled up from within her, like a wail with more to say than 'I'm upset.' It said I'm sad and pissed, more angry with myself for having let this happen, im at a loss, my chest feels hollow and I _can't believe I let this happen_.

Her hand fell limp against her pocket, halfheartedly searching for her phone. She knew she needed to call Raven or Octavia, she needed someone to talk to or she'd drive herself insane. Only Raven and Finn had a history and it wouldn't be right of Clarke to go bitching to her, and Octavia was so wrapped up in that new guy. Clarke didn't want to rain on her parade.

But the heaving sobs were still tearing through her chest, and her head was starting to spin. _You're hyperventilating, _she told herself. _Get it together, would you?! _She hadn't anticipated how angry she was with herself. Her hands shook, so she buried them in her hair and tugged. Everything had been going so well, she had been able to overlook so much and think that _just maybe_ he would be able to fit the bill. She didn't need perfect, she needed someone to understand, and instead Finn had just lost it...

Clarke crossed her room in a few short strides. Her hands, clammy with sweat, flung open her window and she fell against the sill. The cold night air kicked into her lungs, flushing out... something. God, she felt like she was going to puke. She bit her lip, trying to hold in the ugly sobs and whatever else might come along with them, tried to get it all under control.

Her eyes were burning. _It's okay. _

Snot dripped down onto her lips. _You're going to be okay._

Her chest felt tight. _Get yourself under control._

Directly above her another window slid open, creaking in its frame, complaining from lack of use. Worn hands lit upon it's edges and Clarke did not notice a head of brown hair peek out, take stock of the scene, before retreating back inside.

She _did_ notice when petals started to rain down around her.

At first the blonde couldn't process just what was happening. They were pink, mostly, pale like Tums. She was startled enough that a sob caught in her throat, turning into a hiccup instead. She flinched away as one lit on her shoulder. _What on Earth?_ She reached out a shaking hand, trying to catch one as it drifted down to the busy street below. Finally, she looked up.

A girl stared down at her, face in shadow and framed by loose brown curls. She leaned on crossed arms propped up on her own sill, and even if the set of her jaw was stern and impassive her eyes said 'curious.' Clarke hadn't seen her before, and she was too startled to be embarrassed. Her brows drew down and in, her lips parted and formed the word 'what' even if she didn't say a thing. She let out a small breath.

"Rough day?"

For some reason Clarke hadn't expected her to speak. It was out-of-place enough that she was there at all, but to carry on a conversation after finding a stranger heaving her lungs out of her window, well... Some of her sense was returning back to her.

"Uhm. Yeah, you could say that." God, she sounded like shit. Her voice was hoarse and still quivered a bit.

The girl paused. Maybe she hadn't expected Clarke to speak either, because she didn't have any sort of reply for that. She looked up and out over the city that crashed around them. Clarke wondered at first if the petals had just been some sort of... weird thing she did, and felt at once like she was intruding on a moment. She turned her palms down and pushed against the sill, picking herself up and fighting for a straight face. That was weird, but nothing a long night of drinking wouldn't help her forget.

And then, "Do you want some tea?"

Clarke turned back to her, wiggling just a bit further out the window. The girl was looking down at her again, expression almost the same except her brows had lifted. There was something soft there, and if she was being honest with herself, Clarke felt raw. Maybe tea would do her some good, even if it was with a complete stranger.

"Yeah. I guess that sounds good," she said at last, quiet. "I'll, uh. Come on up, I guess?"

The girl nodded, seeming satisfied with Clarke wavering answer. "I'll unlock the door." Just like that she was gone, leaving Clarke halfway out her window with nothing but forty feet and some flower petals left between her and the rest of the world.

She felt like she was swimming, walking up the flight of stairs from her apartment to the one above. 502A, wooden door with green paint, chipping on the bottom edge and around the handle. She thought back to the year she'd lived in that apartment and never once had she heard a noise from the room above her, never seen the girl coming or going. It wouldn't be quite truthful to say that she'd thought the place was empty, because she hadn't given it any thought at all.

Clarke raised her fist to knock, but remembered the girl said the door would be unlocked. She took a deep breath and quickly wiped at her eyes. The handle was cold when she wrapped her palm around it, clicked when she twisted it, opened without so much as a creak.

The first thing she noticed was the smell of the place, but that thought was chased away when her eyes took in everything around her. Bundles of plants hung from lines strung across her ceiling, drying out. Flower pots cluttered the space, sat on tables, on bookshelves, in corners and on counters, they were _everywhere_, and were sporting nothing Clarke could name off the top of her head. And then under the plants were the _books_, of every size and color and most of them looked like they belonged to some earlier century. Her furniture was old and worn, her floors were wooden and appeared repurposed, her walls were covered in photographs and posters of mountains and ravines and waterfalls and sunsets.

It took the breath right out of her.

She didn't notice the girl had entered the room until she cleared her throat. Clarke startled, turning too fast to feign nonchalance. "Sorry for the mess," her neighbor began. The tone of her voice, or rather the lack of any tone at all, made Clarke wonder if she was even a little bit sorry.

"Don't be," Clarke said, words babbling forth before she could consider them. "I think it's awesome."

The girl paused to stare. Clarke wondered if she'd said something wrong, or if the girl was starting to regret inviting her over. The latter was starting to seem more and more likely. But instead of kicking her out, she turned around and trailed her fingers over the fronds of a fern, making her way into the kitchen. Clarke her the clanging of pots and stood dumbly in the entryway. She hadn't really been invited in necessarily and she didn't want to be rude, but this was kind of weird. She ran a nervous hand through her hair.

The decision was made for her when her eyes wandered over a book left open on a low coffee table. It was large and leather-bound, its pages yellowing and crumbling and nicked. The page it had been opened to was an old ink drawing of a flower and it's stem. The petals were small and delicate, the leaves long and thin. Words were scrawled all around the illustration, looking for all intents and purposes to be handwritten. '_Steep for thirty minutes, strain, and steep again. Two cups a day.' _

A shoe scuffed on a floorboard, and Clarke looked up to find her host holding a small mug in both hands. A tendril of steam curled upwards into the air, drawing Clarke's eyes upwards. She looked... curious, and it was with an intensity Clarke wasn't used to experiencing in her every day life. The girl's footsteps were silent when she walked around the coffee table, silent as she sat down on her other side, silent as she set the mug on the table top.

"Thanks," Clarke said quietly. Okay, this was _weird_."So, can I ask you what your name is?"

"Lexa," her host said simply, and offered nothing else. "Yours?"

She pursed her lips, pressing them down into the smallest of confused frowns. "Clarke."

Lexa nodded and leaned forward to look over the book herself.


End file.
